


Paint Your Words of Love Across My Skin

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-30
Updated: 2009-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred and Matthew see each other in person for the first time since becoming online fuck buddies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Your Words of Love Across My Skin

"I want you inside me," Matthew says.

"Yeah," Alfred breathes. He smiles. "You want me to help?"

Matthew is already turning around to face the back of the chair, as he likes to do. "No," he says with a glance over his shoulder at Alfred, "I'll do it myself today." Thick locks fall over his turned profile as he looks down. For a moment Alfred feels like he's looking into a surreal mirror, not exact in its replication and not mimicking his own self now; but as he looks at Matthew's face, half-obscured by hair, not entirely covering the flush of desire, Alfred sees himself—a glimpse of himself through Matthew's eyes.

Matthew pushes back the errant strands, tucking them behind his ear so his eyes can smile at Alfred as he holds himself open with one hand, slicking himself inside with the other, stretching himself, his legs splayed as far as the arms of the plush chair will allow.

Then Matthew's gaze slips to Alfred's cock and lingers. Alfred doesn't linger: he slides his fingertips up and down his shaft, more than practical stroking, playing to give pleasure to Matthew's pleasurable gaze. He watches Matthew as he does so, watches Matthew watching him, Matthew's lashes fluttering without blinking. Alfred breaks the play only to get the lube, and then he's stroking again, slicking himself up, as slick as Matthew.

Their eyes meet again. "Ready?" Matthew asks, and Alfred grins as he nods. As Alfred sheathes his cockhead in the tight heat of his fist, Matthew spreads himself wider with one hand and pushes back onto the dildo he's holding with the other.

Alfred slides off the sofa to his knees, one hand on his cock, the other caressing Matthew through the too slick, too smooth, cool (oh, too cool) glass of the laptop monitor. He traces Matthew's spine, the curve and arch as Matthew's head falls back and the ends of his hair slide down his nape; Alfred's fingertip slides up to meet the silken strands, but they don't part for him, they don't wind around him or slide away clinging as his hand falls from them.

Too close and not close enough, Alfred sits back on his heels, concentrates on his cock and the tendrils he can feel uncoiling in his balls. Matching his rhythm to Matthew's, upstroke for upstroke, downstroke for downstroke, breath for heavy breath, Alfred swallows his own soft inarticulations to better hear Matthew's static-encrusted sighs of "yeah, oh~"…

Oh, and Alfred's breathing heavily, breathing deeply, exhaling Matthew's name: calling him, yes, and Matthew looks back over his shoulder, and they hold each other with their eyes as Alfred comes.

Alfred lets his legs unfold in front of him as he leans back against the sofa. He doesn't wipe the come from as he watches Matthew, who is still looking back over his shoulder at Alfred, one hand on the chairback for balance and leverage, the other working the dildo in and out and in and.

And there's a hitch in the rhythm as Matthew turns to sit in the chair properly. Or, not _properly_ , but facing front. He palms his balls, lifts them to expose himself, drapes his legs over the arms of the chair. So improper and fucking gorgeous in his impropriety, draped over the chair so he's completely open to Alfred, open for Alfred, and Alfred wants with more than his gaze, he wants with his fingers and his tongue and his cock, soft and spent and satisfied, an ache woven into the satisfaction.

Fucking himself with the dildo, his cock fucking his hand, watching Alfred eyefuck him, Matthew wants, too. "Please, Alfred, oh fuck _please~_ "

"Come on, Matt," Alfred urges. Words are all he can give Matthew right now, though next week ( _next week!_ ) will be different. But it's not next week yet, it's now, and right now Matthew wants Alfred's words. Alfred drops his voice to a throaty murmur, swirling a fingertip through the slick on his belly. "Want to see you come"; he licks his fingertip, lets it linger along his lip as his voice drops to a throaty murmur: "Come on, give me your come—"

And Matthew does, in the only way he can: arching and spilling out over his own hand, Alfred's name spilling from his lips.

They're quiet. Alfred makes no move to clean up because Matthew likes this, this moment, this quiet. He likes to be able to look at Alfred in the afterness, even if he sometimes closes his eyes; he likes Alfred to be there when he opens them again.

When Matthew finally opens his eyes, anticipation rides the curve of his smile. "Are you here yet?"

"Soon," Alfred says, smiling even though it's not soon enough, smiling because at least it is sooner than never; smiling because Matthew is, too.

 

When Alfred clears customs, Matthew is leaning against a column, the hemline of his red hoodie scrunched up to accommodate his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Matthew is looking off at something, or maybe at nothing in particular; Alfred doesn't follow his line of vision, he just looks at Matthew. Then Matthew's gaze sweeps over to the customs exit, focuses, and they're looking at each other.

As Alfred crosses the floor, Matthew pushes himself off the column, hands coming out of his pockets to wrap his arms around Alfred. They're in each others arms and Alfred can feel Matthew's warmth even through the layers of cotton and polyblend and microsuede. Alfred traces Matthew's spine, going up under the hoodie. His fingers slide back down to Matthew's waistband to untuck Matthew's shirt; Matthew lets him, and Alfred's hand finds Matthew's skin. His palm flattens, fingers splaying, his thumb brushing back and forth over the warmth of Matthew's skin.

They stay like that, holding in the moment; then they step back and look at each other again. "Hi," Alfred says.

"Hi." Matthew grins. As they walk, he takes Alfred's hand, the one that had touched his bare back. They don't let go until they get to the car.

As they turn out of the airport, Alfred touches Matthew's knee. Without glancing over, Matthew permissively shifts his knee towards Alfred, who begins to caress Matthew's inner thigh, enjoying the gentle abrasions of denim against his palm. He touches his own thigh with his other hand and closes his eyes.

"Are you touching me," he hears Matthew ask, "or am I touching you?"

Matthew's eyes are on the road when Alfred looks at him. "We're touching each other," Alfred says. Matthew smiles, takes one hand off the wheel, and reaches blind; their hands touch briefly before Alfred moves his out of the way, and Matthew is touching his thigh. They are, they really _are_ touching other.

"What do you want to do first?" Matthew asks.

"I want to go down on you."

"Oh, I meant—"

Realizing only now that Matthew was not asking in what manner Alfred wants to fuck him first, Alfred says, "I'm an idiot."

"No, I certainly didn't mean that." Matthew grins, then assures him, "And you're not." He glances over. "I want to, too. Go down on you. We've never done that. I mean, you did that one time," Matthew grins as Alfred's blush deepens at the contortionist memory, "but I'm not flexible enough. And it's not really the same," he adds as they slow for a yellow light.

As the light turns red and they come to an idling stop, Matthew is able to take his eyes fully off the road. "We haven't kissed yet, either," he says softly.

"No, we haven't," Alfred agrees.

"Do you want to now?"

Alfred nods.

They slant towards each other, Matthew's tongue flick over Alfred's grin in a soft flash—and then their smiles touch for the first time. Their teeth touch, too, and can't seem to get out of the way for their tongues, which glance off each other.

"I can do that much better," Alfred says.

Matthew grins and says he can, too. He takes Alfred's face with one hand as he leans in, and this time Alfred lets Matthew come to him. Matthew's breath is warm on his lips, and when Alfred parts his own, he feels the warmth mingling—breath warm and moist, and the wet warmth of Matthew's tongue. Alfred licks the warmth in his own mouth; and in Matthew's. He brushes his cheek against Matthew's fingers as they kiss, feeling the frame of his glasses slip askew. Reaching for Matthew in turn, Alfred's fingertips nestle at Matthew's nape beneath the soft fall of his hair. As he strokes down Matthew's throat, he feels vibrations against the pulse of his thumb, more vibrations on his tongue.

"Sorry," Matthew says when they part. Eyebrow cocked, he offers Alfred a tilted smile. "Is it weird that I hum?"

"No," Alfred says. "I mean, maybe." He flashes a grin of his own. "But I like it."

This time they kiss through the cycle, green already turning to yellow by the time they part.

As Matthew floors the accelerator and burns through the red, Alfred keeps kissing his neck, licking and nipping, breathing in the trace fragrance of soap, inhaling the natural musk beneath. Matthew tilts into an arch for Alfred's mouth and Alfred licks the fine layer of perspiration along his nape. "I want to taste you," he murmurs in Matthew's ear. Nuzzling and licking Matthew's skin, he comes back to whisper, "I want to suck your cock."

Moaning softly, with heavy breath and heavier sigh, Matthew pulls away. "If you keep this up," he smiles into Alfred's eyes before he looks forward again, "I'm going to wind up driving us into a tree."

Alfred grins back. "Sorry," he says, though he's not really very. He's a little sorry that he has to stop, but he'd rather they make it safely to Matthew's where he _can_ suck Matthew's cock, where they can kiss and lick and fuck and touch.

He looks out the window, focusing on the rolls of the hills. Then Matthew's fingers touch his on the seat between them; their hands curl around each other. Alfred looks at their fingers, the way they interlace. He looks at Matthew, who risks a glance from the road to return the smile with a gentle squeeze of his hand.

 

They don't rip each other's clothes off when Matthew lets them in the front door, and Alfred snorts softly to himself when he realizes that part of him thought that might happen; the really funny thing is that it was neurons and not hormones coming up with that one, and so he keeps grinning but just shakes his head when Matthew raises an inquiring eyebrow.

"So here we are, then," Matthew says. "Can I get you anything?"

"Maybe I'll take a shower," Alfred says. When Matthew says of course, Alfred adds, "Maybe you'll take one with me?"

Matthew smiles.

They've seen each other naked so many times before, hundreds of times, maybe thousands, maybe more, and some of those times were even in person. But those times were before that one night a few months ago when they were hooked in online, talking and drinking together across miles and miles and thousands of miles, and just looking at Matthew all that time had made Alfred so horny he'd had to jerk off. Which he told Matthew—not that it was because of Matthew, but that he was going to go whack off now. He'd had to say it because with the angle of the webcam it had to be obvious, his physical arousal. So he said it with a laugh, and Matthew had laughed, too; and then Matthew had asked him not to go. Not laughing anymore but smiling, _smiling_ , he asked Alfred to stay and get himself off, and he watched while Alfred did.

They've seen each other naked before and since, but all those times were different. _This_ time is different. This is the first time that Matthew feels warm when Alfred touches him naked, warm and smooth but not too smooth, wet with the slickness, so much softer than the glass of the laptop monitor, pliant and yielding to the touch. The washcloths have fallen away and they're soaping each other skin to skin, skin on skin, their hands roaming, exploring the skinscape, the musculature, the planes and angles of bone gentled by living flesh. Matthew keeps reaching for the faucet, coaxing the water to stay hot, just a little more, just a little longer.

In bliss from the sensation of Alfred's fingertips along his scalp, Matthew wonders aloud if sex could possibly be as good as this.

Alfred turns him around and tips him back to rinse his hair. Kisses him. "Do you want to find out?"

 

The first time, they fuck with their glasses on. They're in Matthew's room, in his bed, the French doors wide open. He had wanted to go out into the woods for their first time, Matthew tells Alfred wryly, but he did some "research" and found it wasn't as comfortable as his romantic notions.

Alfred starts to turn Matthew over, but Matthew doesn't go. "We always do it that way," he says. "This time I want to see you while you're fucking me." He maneuvers his legs to either side of Alfred, knees bent and feet flat. One arm curves on the pillow as extra support for his head while his other hand goes down to palm his balls the way Alfred has seen him do so many times, squeezing and tugging, tugging them up to give Alfred a better view—to give Alfred access.

At first, Alfred only looks. His chest expands as usual with each breath he takes in, but his lungs feel like they're filling with something heavier than air. He keeps breathing, though. Keeps looking. He looks up into Matthew's eyes and Matthew blinks but he doesn't look away, he licks his lips and says "okay" and Alfred isn't sure if Matthew is asking if Alfred is or if he's telling Alfred that he is himself, or simply that it is. But it _is_.

Alfred takes another breath. Breathing onto his own finger, he licks it, dragging his tongue across the pad as his teeth hold it for him. He touches the licked, wet pad of his finger to Matthew; he touches Matthew inside. As he pushes in, he feels the flickers and contractions and expansions of muscle, Matthew holding him stronger and softer than teeth. Alfred pushes in just a little more, breathes a little more and looks at Matthew more, and Matthew is looking at him, too.

"More," Matthew says, and Alfred takes his fingertip out only to slick it up properly, to put it in again, all the way, feeling Matthew with corkscrew caresses, filling him with finger and stretch.

When Alfred has run out of fingers to answer Matthew's "more"s, he slicks himself up. And when he's slick, when he's ready, when they both are ready and more, Matthew reaches for Alfred, takes him in hand, and guides him in.

The push in is smooth, crazysmooth, not like skin or glass; more like skin but also like more than skin. Or not more, but deeper; inside, which is, yes, not for words but exactly so. Alfred pushes all the way in, looks at Matthew beneath him, and as Matthew hooks his legs over Alfred's arms to open himself even more for Alfred, as Alfred fills Matthew with strokes and heat and cock, as Alfred fucks and fills Matthew with himself, Matthew moans and smiles. He fucking _smiles_ , and Alfred can't come yet so he does all he can: he breathes Matthew's name and keeps fucking him, keeps fucking him, keeps on smiling and fucking him.

"Next time," Alfred promises, stretching out beside Matthew, "you can fuck me."

"If you want me to," Matthew says. "But I like it when you fuck me." He smiles. "I mean, I really, really like it."

Alfred, his grin tells Matthew, likes it, too.

 

The second time, Alfred wants to hold Matthew while he fucks him, and Matthew likes that idea. So Alfred spoons up behind him and Matthew spreads his legs again, one hand cupped around his thigh to hold himself open. Alfred guides himself in this time, then moves his hand to Matthew's torso, their bodies flush together, Matthew's back warm and solid against Alfred's chest. Slow, small strokes as they begin; as the strokes lengthen and speed, Alfred moves his hand from Matthew's heart to his hip, fingers digging in to help their bodies hold the rhythm.

"I think I like this position best so far," Matthew tells Alfred, looking over his shoulder.

Alfred bends to kiss him; when he only gets the corner of Matthew's mouth, he leans more, pushes in more, kisses Matthew full on the lips so that Matthew sighs into his mouth. Alfred licks the trace of sigh from Matthew's upper lip, curling behind with a flick to get all there is. "Do you like that?" he asks, rolling his hips, his cockhead deep inside Matthew.

"Yes," Matthew says, breath vibrating off his own consonants when Alfred presses another undulation inside him: "Oh, oh~yes~, yeah," little swallowed inarticulation, "I like that. Feels good," he tells Alfred, and even though Alfred can't see Matthew's face, he can hear the smile: "It feels so good, Alfred~"

And Alfred tells Matthew how good it is for him, too. How amazing it is to be inside Matthew, to _feel_ Matthew around him, taking him, accepting him. "I want to make it good for you," Alfred murmurs, and when Matthew again tells him it _is_ good, Alfred says he wants to make it even better. "How do you like it best?" he asks. "Slower?" He draws out the strokes, taking his time with each careful thrust, slow all the way out, all the way in slow...

"Or faster?" And he moves, no less thorough but with greater urgency, driving in and pulling out and driving in—

"This," Matthew says breathily when Alfred switches back to the almost languid strokes.

"Slow?" Alfred murmurs, flicking his tongue lazily against Matthew's earlobe.

Matthew arches so Alfred's tongue slides along his jawline. "Like it when you mix it up," he purrs; so Alfred does.

When Alfred feels Matthew begin to cramp, he pulls out just long enough for Matthew to roll comfortably onto his front, twisting his hips as he props up and cants to look back over his shoulder at Alfred. So like their webcam dates; so different. Alfred holds onto Matthew's shoulder as he enters him again. Matthew starts talking Alfred off, coaxing and urging him to climax, and it is so very like their webcam dates.

And, yes, oh yes, so utterly different. Because as Matthew talks this time, Alfred can touch him—and he does. Reaching around, he wraps his fingers around the hard, pliant heat of Matthew's cock, giving Matthew his hand to fuck; he varies his strokes and matches the variations to each other, until Matthew is moaning and the only coherency he can manage is Alfred's name, and the come on Alfred's hand is not his own.

After Alfred has been reduced and expanded to his own incoherency, he lets himself collapse beside Matthew. Matthew rolls onto his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other open; Alfred snugs in, his head on Matthew's shoulder, basking in casual, drowsy caresses...

But Alfred doesn't want sleep. He wants to be with Matthew, conscious and consciously. He turns his head to kiss Matthew's jaw, his throat. The pulse at the hollow of Matthew's throat quickens; Alfred starts to quicken himself as he makes his way languidly down Matthew's body.

Matthew is spent, soft as Alfred takes him into his mouth. Alfred glances up, their gazes meet; as Matthew begins to stroke Alfred's hair rhythmically and in earnest, Alfred closes his eyes and meets him stroke for stroke. Eyes closed, he savors the touch, the scent, the taste, the fullness and the fill.

Then Matthew adds another stroke: his foot along the back of Alfred's thigh, touching as much as he can. With glottal sighs, with fistings and tuggings, Matthew tells Alfred he's close and wants to be closer, he wants to be _there_ —

And Alfred takes him there. He takes Matthew down, swallowing as he holds Matthew in his throat; then he holds Matthew in his mouth and feels Matthew on his tongue, Matthew sliding liquid down his throat.

Now he holds Matthew in his hand, and when Matthew makes a move to wipe the corner of Alfred's mouth, Alfred's tongue gets there first. Matthew touches his mouth, anyhow, tracing the lower curve of Alfred's smile with his thumb.

When Alfred comes up to him again, Matthew traces that curve with his tongue and then he pushes Alfred onto his back. Tracing the curve of Alfred's cock with his tongue, he swallows Alfred in a smile.

 

The third time, Alfred kisses Matthew like he's been wanting to, with flicks and teases of tongue until Matthew opens against his mouth and Alfred pushes his tongue inside at last.

His tongue unfurls as he withdraws it, soothes it up along the cleft, his hand lower, fondling Matthew's sac as he licks. He kisses the dimple below Matthew's tailbone, comes off only to moisten his finger; then he goes down again, down more, his fingertip tracing the path of his tongue, brushing across Matthew's hole, rubbing wet little circles as he gathers Matthew's balls and tugs them back towards his mouth.

With a sigh-thickened gasp, Matthew jerks as Alfred's fingertip presses against his prostate, the pleasure thrills impelling him forward; Alfred lets Matthew's balls skim free across his uncurled fingers as he releases Matthew. Matthew's knees skate out and then Alfred's hands open him even more and he kisses Matthew there, kisses, licks and licks until Matthew is flickering open wider inside; Alfred kisses and licks until Matthew is ready for his cock, eager to be filled. "Fuck me," Matthew entreats. "Fuck me, Alfred~"

And Alfred does. Tonguefucks him until Matthew gasps, "I'm close, I'm going to—" Alfred wants him to, so he gives Matthew more with his tongue and lips, with his hands everywhere, their fingers touching at the base of Matthew's cock as Matthew strokes himself off.

After Matthew comes, he twists half onto his side. "I didn't know you were going to do that."

"Neither did I," Alfred admits with a grin. "Did you like it?"

"I loved it." Matthew's smile is shy.

His own smile unreserved, Alfred says, "I did, too."

"You did? You mean because I liked it so much?"

"No, I mean," Alfred moves to sit against the headboard, and then doesn't finish his sentence because he isn't sure what he means. "I just liked it," he says.

Matthew can't help wrinkling his nose as he asks, "Wasn't it disgusting? At least a little?"

"No," Alfred says. "It was natural. It was you. It was... _you_." He wants to say more, but he can't find the words even for himself.

Matthew hears the thought uncompleted, and tries to finish for Alfred: "More me there than anywhere else?" he suggests.

"No," Alfred says again. "As much you, though; as much you there as anywhere." He shakes his head a little, unable to explain it any more than that. Matthew just looks at him and Alfred knows the words have been inadequate. But then Matthew kisses him, and Alfred stops trying to say things he doesn't know how to.

"Do you want me to do that?" Matthew asks. Alfred grins as he shakes his head. "Okay," Matthew says, "but I want to do something special for you."

"This is special. Being here with you. Being able to touch you." Alfred thinks his words sound stupid. But Matthew doesn't look like he thinks Alfred is stupid, so Alfred keeps going. "Being able to feel you touch me."

So Matthew touches him, starting with his fingers, his palms, his wrists, up his arms to his shoulders, his neck, down along his spine, his buttocks, his thighs, his calves, the arch of his feet, his toes; Matthew touches Alfred everywhere with kneading, soothing caresses. Matthew touches him and Alfred feels like he did in the shower, it's like being bathed with touch.

 

The fourth time, Alfred stops and holds when he enters Matthew. He closes his eyes to feel Matthew around him, to feel the heat and the closeness; just to feel.

Matthew start to rock back and Alfred hears Matthew say his name; his grip on Matthew's hips tightens and he opens his eyes. Matthew, looking over his shoulder, says Alfred's name again when their gazes meet. His undulation truncated by Alfred's hands, a low growl vibrates in Matthew's throat.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No, I just," Matthew inhales, breathes out a longful smiling sigh, " _want_ you to move."

"I will," Alfred promises. "I just want to feel this."

Matthew indulges him. "But," he does point out with a grin, "you _have_ felt this several times since your arrival, haven't you?"

"No," Alfred says, "not really." He hasn't felt the fact of being inside Matthew without anything else, without movement or motivation beyond the simplicity and utterness of being inside Matthew; he hasn't felt just _this_.

He doesn't say any of that, though. He holds and feels, and Matthew lets him.

And when Matthew needs to move, Alfred lets him, and moves with him, in him; and Alfred feels _this_ , and he feels more, and Matthew does, too.

 

Matthew wakes to find Alfred already awake, propped up beside him. Matthew strokes Alfred's hair, playing with his forelock, watching it right itself no matter how Matthew toys with it; he thinks how the whims of Alfred's hair hasn't changed, and how so much else has. He smiles. He looks at Alfred's face and Alfred is smiling, too. Matthew wonders what Alfred is thinking, and after another moment of wordless grinning, asks him.

Alfred knows how Matthew feels about him, and he knows Matthew knows the same. They've just never said it in words aloud, because some things need to be done in person—like kissing, sucking cock, and saying "I love you."


End file.
